


Sinking In The Shallows

by ScullyLikesScience



Series: Out Of The Darkness, Into The Light [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Aunt/Nephew Incest, Bisexual Jon Snow, Canon Compliant, Declarations Of Love, Denial of Feelings, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Feelings Realization, Flashbacks, Gratuitous Smut, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Implied Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Implied/Referenced Incest, LITERALLY, M/M, POV Jon Snow, Plot What Plot, Political Jon Theory, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 07, Season/Series 05, Season/Series 06, Shameless Smut, Smut, Why Did I Write This?, it's just a bunch of smut, it's not that deep, once you look into the Night King's eyes you just wanna get fucked, smutty smut smut, this fic isn't a personal attack on your ships or your headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-12 14:53:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15342249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScullyLikesScience/pseuds/ScullyLikesScience
Summary: Finding himself under too much pressure, Jon desperately seeks relief from overwhelming burdens.





	Sinking In The Shallows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheEagleGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEagleGirl/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I do not own the character of Jon Snow or any others that appear in the ASOIAF/GoT universe. The characters in this fic don't belong to me, nor does canon from the books/TV show that I make reference to within this story. All credit goes to GRRM or D&D.
> 
> Please read the tags carefully. If this fic isn't to your tastes, then hit the back button and find a fic that is. It's really that simple. There's no need for you to waste your time or mine. The fact I even have to add this note is pretty sad. But it is what it is. If this fic _is_ in line with your tastes or sincerely interests you, please keep reading.

Camped along the kingsroad, they were not far from Castle Cerwyn, and still several days from Winterfell. Jon was seated next to Daenerys Targaryen inside her large tented pavilion while they supped on venison stew. The cold winter wind was howling outside as the sun began to set. A lit fire filled the tent with warmth, bathing her dress of white lambswool in a golden glow. They ate mostly in silence, Jon's mind full of anxious expectation of his return home. Each day they drew nearer, and each day he grew more fearful and apprehensive. How would he explain himself to the northern lords? To Sansa? In his mind, everything depended on her trust and her willingness to listen. Everything. He prayed to the gods of their father that he would be given the chance.

When Jon had left Winterfell, he'd been sick with love. The bad kind. The tight-fist-around-his-heart kind. For he was not so foolish as to cherish any hopes. At times he tried to reason with himself, to argue against the hopelessness of his desire, advising himself to place his affections elsewhere, to place them where they wouldn't be so desperate. At times he longed for death, since success in love was hopeless, and every night he would toss sleepless because of her. Then he ran far, all the way to Dragonstone, but there still was no escaping it. It followed him south, all the way. That was ten long months ago, and the burden on his heart he still carried. His love had neither faded nor withered with time. The secret yearnings of his heart had only grown stronger and deeper the longer he was away. Finding himself on the verge of coming face-to-face with the object of his love at once filled him with joy and agony. 

"How soon will Cersei's armies join us, do you suppose?" asked Daenerys, breaking the silence. 

Jon drew a long breath and shook off his reverie. There was no way in seven hells Cersei Lannister was going to keep her word. There was no army coming to help. If she did send an army, it would be more likely to attack them. "It won't be long, I imagine," he told her. "She understands just how quickly we have to act."

"You didn't come to me last night," Daenerys said, abruptly changing the subject. "Or the night before. And the night before that."

He hesitated, swallowing, but quickly steeled himself. "I thought it best not to, now that we're so far up north. Things are easier seen in a camp than in the lower decks of a ship."

She laid her spoon down on the table and stared at him. "Are you ashamed of me? Of what we are to each other?"

Another flash of her paranoia. Jon wondered if she was just as fearful and apprehensive as he was over their impending arrival at Winterfell. If she had been any other woman, he wouldn't have given much thought to the accusatory tone in her voice. But there was no woman in the world like her. Laced with every expression of displeasure was the underlying threat of dragonfire. Even if unintended, the threat was always lurking somewhere beneath the surface. "There's nothing to be ashamed of," he lied, averting his eyes from hers. "But this is the North. I'm expected to conduct myself in a manner that befits House Stark. And I would rather word of us not come to Winterfell through misinformed gossip. I wouldn't want my people to form their own wrong ideas about what we are, to come to wrong conclusions before I've even arrived home. I'd rather speak for myself."

She nodded, but spoke no reply, and took a sip from her wine glass. 

Jon could feel the vexation pouring off Daenerys like a white fog. He had to do something to appease her. After re-positioning his chair out from the table, he reached over and grabbed hold of the arm of her chair, pulling her out and towards him. His hands went to the hem of her woolen gown, lifting it up and above her knees. He slid his hand under her dress, along her bare thigh, inching closer to the heat between her legs. 

"What are you doing?" she said, her eyes widening, darkening. 

"What do you think I'm doing?" he answered in a rough whisper. His steady, determined gaze met hers, and held. Her lips parted. "Your Dothraki guards are just outside the entrance."

She swallowed, nodding silently. 

He slipped his hand further beneath her dress, his fingertips lightly brushing her soft skin that pebbled at his touch. "There are tents beside yours less than three feet away. They belong to your Ser Jorah and Tyrion, your Hand. My Ser Davos knows I am here dining with you. They could walk in any moment. Discretion is in our best interests."

She licked her lips, and her chest began to heave. Her hips arched off the seat as his hand finally reached her sensitive warmth. Jon began stroking her soft flesh, his fingertips brushing against the hard nub at her apex. Wetness started to seep from her center, her flesh becoming damp and thick with heat. 

"Open your legs," Jon ordered. 

Daenerys took hold of her dress hem, lifting it all the way above her hips, revealing her nakedness, and spread her legs wider, exposing her cunt to his full view. He pushed a finger through her slick folds and into her tight heat. She arched into his touch and rocked her hips as her stroked her depths. She whimpered when he removed his finger, but soon began moaning as he caressed her nub, hardened with her arousal. Abruptly, he pushed two fingers up inside her. She was now dripping wet, and he coated his thumb in her juices before stroking her swollen bead and fucking her with his fingers. He thrust hard and fast, watching her eyes roll to the back of her head as her pleasure mounted. 

Jon watched her grip the arms of her chair, knuckles going white, as her body tensed up, straining for release. He knew how to ply her body to his command. "Daenerys," he spoke in a hoarse whisper. "Take your pleasure from me. Let it come."

She moaned as he slammed his fingers into her harder. He felt her cunt tighten around him, and her eyes slammed shut. A ragged curse word escaped her lips as her release started to crash through her, and she began grinding against his hand. Jon averted his eyes from her face and stared at her center, her wet release coating his fingers and his palm. If only the writhing cunt in front of him belonged to another woman. What wouldn't he give to bury his face between his sister's legs and feel her release come all over him? _Sansa._ His heart sank within him at the thought. He needed her. He'd always needed her, even as a boy. But since she rushed into his arms at Castle Black and came back into his life, he wanted her. He'd often gaze at her breasts, hidden beneath her woolen gowns, and imagine how soft and warm they would feel in his hands. He'd stroke himself at night and think of that secret sweetness between her legs, hot and wet with desire for him. He'd spend his seed all over his hand as he thought of her body arching beneath him while he thrust into her soft, tight cunt. 

Daenerys heaved a contented sigh and loosened her grip on the arms of her chair, her body relaxing into the fading pleasure. Jon removed his soaked fingers from her center, sweet thoughts of Sansa fading to the background, and he groaned. His cock was as hard as steel, pressing almost painfully against his breeches. She grinned at him and leaned forward, reaching for his lacings. But he shook his head and stood up from the chair. He picked up a cloth from the tabletop and wiped his hand clean. "It's not a good idea right now," he said, tossing the cloth back onto the table and nodding towards the entrance. He could hear low voices speaking in a language not his own, just outside the tent.

"When?" she asked, standing up and stepping towards him. She rubbed her hand along the bulging material of his breeches. "I need you."

"Soon," he answered evasively. He gave her a tight smile, leaned down and lightly kissed her face, wished her a good night, and then departed the pavilion.

*****

When Jon walked inside his own tent, he saw a hot bath had been prepared for him. Steam rose from its surface. He smiled, silently thanking whoever had done him this kindness. He suspected Davos had ordered it done, or perhaps one of his loyal Winterfell guards, who continued to address him as "my king" when not in mixed company.

He moved towards the large copper basin. His cock throbbed against the taut lacings, the urges rising up within him becoming increasingly powerful. He quickly undressed and carefully stepped into the tub of hot water, letting out a sigh of relief. If only there was some relief for his mind, full of distressing thoughts. Daenerys. The Night King. The northern lords. Sansa. What if he failed? What if his efforts with the dragon queen were all for nothing? What if she abandoned the real war and went back south? Or worse, what if she burned them all? He'd made a risky decision. He prayed it would turn out to be the right one. 

Anguish in his mind, Jon leaned back in the tub, his erect cock poking up just above the hot water. A memory stirred; a memory of his private rooms at Castle Black, the chambers belonging to the Lord Commander.....

Jon stepped inside his bedchamber to find a flagon of mulled wine on the table, along with a platter of bread and meat and cheese. Steam rose from a large basin of hot water. His steward and squire, Satin Flowers, was stoking the fire in the stone hearth. It was a welcomed sight. 

"M'lord," Satin greeted him, turning from the fire. "I thought you could do with a hot bath."

"Thank you," he said, walking over to the flagon of mulled wine and pouring himself a glass. And then another. He shrugged off his heavy, black feathered cloak and tossed it on a nearby chair. Satin crossed the room until he stood in front of him. His soft, delicate hands went to the lacings of Jon's black leather jerkin and he began to undress him.

"I can do that, Satin."

His squire smiled. "Please allow me. It's an honor to serve the Lord Commander," he said, his sweet voice pleasing to Jon's ears. "In every way that I can."

He nodded, giving up the protest. He was such a pretty young man, Jon thought. Graceful and slender, good with a sword and a crossbow, fearless and loyal like many of his brothers. But unlike most of his black brothers, Satin was also nice to look at and had a sweet scent. Choosing him for his own personal steward had been one of his better decisions as Lord Commander.

Smiling at his acquiescence, Satin's pretty eyes sparkled as he removed layer after layer of his clothing. The leather jerken, black woolens, smallclothes, and his pair of well-worn boots were soon in a pile on the floor. Jon then lowered his nude body into the tub of steaming water, sighing in relief. He leaned back and closed his eyes, but the images that immediately came forward were unwelcome. Janos Slynt's decapitated head. Mance Rayder burning alive in the castle courtyard. The stunned look on Ygritte's face at his betrayal, the tears in her eyes. An arrow through Ygritte's chest. Ygritte's funeral pyre in the woods. 

Tears came unbidden to his eyes, and Jon slumped forward, as if weighed down by the burdens on his mind. He turned and looked at Satin, who stood watching him, frowning in sympathy. His squire moved to one corner of the room, retrieving a few items from a canvas sack, and walked back over to the bath tub. Kneeling down next to it, he unstoppered a small container of fragrant oil and scented the water with it. Jon thought it smelled like he was bathing in raspberries. The scent quickly went to his head, and he sighed, closing his eyes.

"You need a proper bathing, m'lord," Satin's sweet voice rang in his ear. "And it'll be quite difficult for me to complete the task properly standing outside the tub."

"Hmm," he said in response, his tense muscles finally relaxing, the cobwebs in his mind starting to clear.

When he opened his eyes, he watched his steward remove his own black leathers and woolens, and then his smallclothes. Satin's fat, half-erect cock flopped against his thigh. Swallowing, Jon remained silent as his squire settled his body into the hot water behind him, stretching his legs out, capturing him between them. He tensed up, his head full of confusion and excitement. Something told him he should order his steward out of the tub, tell him that this was crossing a line. But with his heart pounding beneath his ribs and his groin tightening, he was unable voice this aloud.

Reaching over the side of the tub, Satin grasped a silk cloth and fragrant soap. He soaked the soft cloth in the hot bath water, rubbed the soap with it until suds formed. Satin then began to gently drag the soapy cloth across Jon's arms, chest, and shoulders, before moving down to his stomach and legs as far as he could reach. He sighed and hesitantly leaned back against Satin's solid warmth, resting his head back against his squire's shoulder. The steward cleaned his face with the damp cloth and soaped his long black curls, before running his graceful fingers through them to remove any knots and tangles. 

Satin continued to run soft, wet fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp. Jon closed his eyes, groaning at the pleasurable sensation, his groin stirring. 

"You should bathe like this more often, Lord Commander," Satin purred, brushing his lips against Jon's ear.

His body responded, his cock twitching, lengthening, hardening. Jon opened his eyes and stared at his erect cock poking up from the steaming water. His squire's soft touch continued to caress his scalp, neck, shoulders, chest, arms. Beneath the water's surface, he could feel Satin's hard cock pressed against his lower back. His own cock throbbed. 

Satin's mouth was at his ear again, soft lips brushing against his skin. "Let me take care of you, m'lord. I can see the burden on your shoulders, the grief you carry. For your lord father, your fallen brothers, your wildling girl. I can make it all go away tonight. I can make you feel good, if only you'll let me."

Jon had no doubt the former Oldtown whore could do just as he promised, but he felt he'd dishonored himself enough. He hadn't rode into battle with Robb. He hadn't gone to his father's aid, and he'd done nothing to help his sisters. Instead, he'd turned traitor against his new brothers, violated his vows, betrayed the woman he loved. He was a bastard, oathbreaker, and turncloak. He may have been elected Lord Commander, but it wasn't lost on him that many of his black brothers likely hated him. Not Satin, though. 

The steward's mouth moved from his ear to his neck, softly caressing his wet skin. Satin slowly ran the fingers of his right hand down Jon's chest and stomach, his skin slick against his squire's hand. Steam continued to rise from the soothing bathwater. The steward's hand then gently wrapped around the thick shaft of his rigid cock and Jon gasped.

“You like that, m'lord?” Satin whispered into his ear.

Jon closed his eyes and started breathing hard.

As Satin began to stroke him, Jon's eyes rolled to the back of his head. "I love how you feel in my hand, m'lord," the squire purred. "Your cock is so heavy against my palm, soft like silk and yet hard as iron." 

Hips arching off the bottom of the tub, Jon opened his eyes and watched the soft hand move up and down the warm, pulsing flesh of his erection. He leaned his head back against Satin's shoulder, closing his eyes and panting. The squire's tongue lightly brushed the outside shell of his ear as he squeezed him tighter. Jon's hips again arched in his hand, his own hands gripping the sides of the bathtub, and he began to focus on his imminent release.

Satin ran his thumb over the slick, engorged head of his cock, twisting, before he resumed stroking his thick length. “Do you like my hand on your cock, Lord Commander?”

Jon groaned. A flush crept up his neck, and he could feel his face reddening. From shame, and arousal. This was wrong, what was happening, but it felt oh so good.

"If you like my hand, just you wait until I sit on it, m'lord," the steward said huskily, starting to stroke faster and squeeze tighter.

“Satin…” Jon gasped. His eyes went wide. The hand stroking his hard cock was a blur, the bathwater splashing about. “Oh, gods...”

His squire's tongue darted out to brush against his ear again, and his body tensed. Jolts of pleasure were rippling from the head of his swollen, throbbing cock, out across his groin to his spine, down his thighs, and up to the pit of his stomach.

“You are so beautiful,” Satin whimpered in his ear, followed by a moan of pleasure. "I can't wait to watch you when you come."

Suddenly there was a warm gush of fluid at his lower back, and Jon realized the act of stroking his Lord Commander's hard cock had brought on his squire's own release. His mind went blank, and deep, guttural moans escaped his throat, filling the room. His senses flooded with pleasure, overpowering every other sensation, every other feeling, every other thought. His hips arched off the bottom of the bathtub, pumping his warm seed into Satin's palm. The squire gradually slowed his hand’s movements around his erection as he spent himself with small aftershocks, collapsing back against him, sending waves of bath water rolling across the tub. Dazed and breathless, he watched the lines of his release sink and disappear in the bathwater.

*****

Opening his eyes, the memory began to fade. The fire lit inside his tent flickered, shadows dancing on the canvas walls. Jon leaned back in the copper basin and stared at his erection. His memory of Satin had kept him hard enough to cut glass. The water had begun to cool quickly, and he lifted himself out of the tub, the cool air inside the tent engulfing his engorged, superheated flesh. He quickly dried off with a towel, moved to his mattress, and lay down atop the bedroll, pulling a wool blanket over him. He grasped hold of his pulsing erection and stroked himself until his toes curled, his hips arched off the mattress, straining for completion. He panted silently, reaching for that climax of pleasure that would sweep his mind free of all his worry and trouble. But it was seemingly in vain, for his release would not come. His cock was full and thick, his balls heavy with need. But every thought was tinged with anxiety, fear, and the pain of his love.

"You look in need of something warm, my lord," a familiar voice spoke inside his tent. 

Sitting up, his gaze sought the owner of the voice. Their eyes met and held. Memories of Castle Black suddenly stirring, thoughts of his Lord Commander chambers and Satin once again came forward unbidden.....

Jon sat at the table inside his solar, stunned into silence. Just moments before, the Lady Melisandre had left the room. She'd made one last attempt to change his mind and convince him to ride south with Stannis to Winterfell. The feel of her soft, full breast was still warm in his palm. Almost against his will, his body had responded, the lacings on his breeches stretching to accommodate his girth. And her words still rang inside his head. 

_This power in you, you resist it, and that's your mistake. Embrace it. The Lord of Light made us male and female. Two parts of a greater whole. In our joining there's power. Power to make life, power to make light, and power to cast shadows._

_I swore a vow. I loved another._

_The dead don't need lovers. Only the living._

_I know. But I still love her._

_You know nothing, Jon Snow._

His heart pounded. Why had she spoken those words to him? How could she have known? Hurt and angry, thoughts of Ygritte stabbing him like shards of broken glass, he abruptly stood from the table and left the solar, opening the door to his bedchamber. He paced the room, his feelings in turmoil. He felt tears begin to well in his eyes. Every few moments, his erect cock would throb, the sensation briefly distracting him. But immediately his thoughts would turn dire. He wanted to forget, if only for a moment. Forget Winterfell and Ned Stark, his dead brothers and his lost sisters. He wanted to forget Ygritte and Mance and Tormund and Val and all the rest of the wildlings. He wanted to forget Craster and his daughters and their babies. He wanted to forget Alliser Thorne and Janos Slynt and rest of his black brothers. He wanted to forget he was Lord Commander. He wanted to forget Stannis and the red woman. He wanted to forget their offer, the chance to avenge the Red Wedding and rescue his former home from the Boltons. The chance to become Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell. 

Jon could feel the hot tears roll down his cheeks, and he sat down on the edge of his featherbed, shoulders slumped in anguished defeat. His swollen manhood throbbed painfully beneath his breeches and he groaned, gritting his teeth. His hands frantically went to his taut lacings, pulling them loose. He needed release. He needed relief from the mire of his thoughts. He pulled his cock free, thick and full and heavy with need. Grasping firm hold of his rigid hardness, he began to stroke himself, trying to concentrate on the resulting sensations. One hand. Two hands. Rough and fast. Slow and gentle. He couldn't reach the precipice, much less fall off into the mindless bliss he desperately craved. 

"You look in need of something warm, m'lord."

He halted the movement of his hand over his swollen cock, looking up, and stared at Satin. He hadn't even heard his steward enter the chamber. The young man's dark eyes sparkled, his soft lips curved into a slight smile. He turned and locked the door, before quietly crossing the room. He sat down on his knees in front of Jon and reached his hand up to his face, soft fingers brushing away his tears. "Why do you cry?" he asked. 

Swallowing against the lump in his throat, Jon could only shake his head. The thought occurred to him to put his cock away, but the feel of Satin's gentle fingers caressing his face changed his mind. 

"I watched Stannis Baratheon and the Lady Melisandre leave the castle," Satin said, dropping his hand to rest on his Lord Commander's thigh. "It couldn't have been easy for you to give up Winterfell." 

"It's not mine to give up," Jon replied. "Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa." He sighed. "Wherever she is. She hasn't been seen in months, not since Joffrey's death."

His steward inched closer, gazing up at him earnestly. "But you could have taken Winterfell for safe keeping and then your sister could have joined you there. You could share your home, and live there together, could you not?"

Jon blinked. Share Winterfell? With Sansa? An image flashed before his eyes, of himself ruling as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, a radiant highborn lady at his side, with kind eyes, a sweet smile, and long red hair. His hand gripped his hard cock tighter, and slowly stroked its thick length, precum beading at the swollen head. 

"I can give you what you need, m'lord," Satin whispered, rubbing his hands up and down Jon's thighs. "Why use your own hand when I have something far better?"

He swallowed. Jon had thought that night in the bath was nothing that needed to continue. It was a one-time occurrence. It was only natural for his steward to draw him a hot bath, to wash him. He'd had an unexpected physical need while bathing, and his steward had serviced him. Nothing more. It needn't ever happen again. He wanted to say this to his squire. He believed he should refuse what Satin was offering and make it clear he should make no such offers in future. But his words caught in his throat, and he remained silent.

Dark eyes blazing with a seductive look of triumph, Satin stood and began to undo the laces of his own black leather jerkin, making quick work of his woolens and smallclothes. Jon gazed up at the smooth, lithe body of his steward, the cock long and thick, yet only half erect. His own cock throbbed, precum dripping from his swollen head. Satin again got to his knees in front of him. He reached out a forefinger and touched the slit of Jon's cock, interrupting the steady flow of precum. Slick wetness gathered on the finger, and he watched Satin lift it to his lips, sucking it into his mouth.

"Mmm, sweet," the steward purred. 

Jon's eyes went wide, his hips arching. Desire surged through his veins. Most of his brothers often went to the Mole's Town brothel, had their needs met, and no one at the Wall thought any worse of them. Would this be any different? His own brother, his own steward and squire, would simply be his bedwarmer, serving his every need. Was there dishonor in that? He wanted to live his life in a way that made his lord father proud, in a way that lived up to the honorable Lord Eddard Stark's name. _But he fathered a bastard,_ a small voice whispered inside him. _He betrayed his marriage. Where was the honor in that? And your mother, what of his duty to her? He never even told you her name._  

Wouldn't this be better than laying with a whore and possibly fathering a bastard? Jon's mind made up, he quickly discarded his clothing, tossing them into a heap on the floor. Still sitting on his knees, Satin reached underneath the featherbed, retrieved a small pot of bath oil, and unstoppered the lid. He grinned up at Jon's surprised expression. "I put it here in case it was needed," he said, giving him a shy smile. "Night after night, I kept hoping you would call for me."

Jon's heart pounded in his chest, his mind becoming a heady fog of desire. But his guts twisted into knots. How could he want this? The shame of it welled up inside him, but did nothing to lessen his desire.

Dipping his fingers into the pot, Satin coated them with oil before rubbing Jon's needy cock until it glistened. He then watched his squire dip once again into the oil, reach behind, and rub his tight entrance. The steward let out a sigh and a soft moan as he slipped his fingers inside, working himself up. Jon's groin tightened at the sight, his precum leaking onto the floor, and his own asshole clenched. Did he want to be fucked? The thought hadn't occurred to him before. He allowed his mind to wander, to ponder the notion of having Satin's cock up his ass. To his surprise, the idea excited him.

Satin removed his slick fingers and stood up, moving towards him. Jon sat back as his squire climbed atop his body, straddling his hips. "Don't worry, m'lord. It's not so different from fucking a cunt. Slow and shallow at first. Then deeper and faster," the former Oldtown whore instructed. 

Wrapping his arms around Jon's shoulders, winding his legs around his waist, sinking down on the hard, oil-slicked cock, Satin slowly impaled himself with a glad moan. Jon gave a grunt of pleasured surprise, gasping at the sensation, and he gripped Satin's ass. 

"Fuck me, Lord Commander," Satin begged, arching his back as he began to move up and down, spearing himself over and over on Jon's throbbing cock.

Jon gasped. His squire's ass wasn't as soft as a woman's cunt, but it was hot and tight around his cock. He grabbed the slender waist, pulling Satin's hips to him as he thrust upwards, moving his lithe body up and down, back and forth, Jon's cock going deeper with each stroke. Satin began moaning, and he bit his bottom lip to stifle the noise. Jon stared down at his stomach where his squire's cock lay against it, growing fully erect, becoming huge and fat and leaking precum. His erection only made Jon fuck his tight ass harder, his mind filling with wanton lust. 

"I've wanted this for so long, m'lord," Satin whimpered in his ear, his arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders. His hands went to Jon's hair, sinking his fingers into the soft black curls. "Your cock feels so good inside me. My ass is so tight and your cock is so big and hard."

He suddenly grabbed Jon's hand and brought it to his fat cock, stroking himself with his Lord Commander's palm. Jon groaned, the cock soft as silk and hard as steel against his skin, and he gripped firmly as Satin pumped Jon's fist hard and fast over his engorged flesh. Pressing his mouth into Jon's neck to stifle his sounds, moans of pleasure erupted from his throat as his cock began to spasm with his climax, gushing all over Jon's stomach in heavy spurts. 

Looking down, the sight of hot seed seeping from Satin's cock made Jon's eyes roll to the back of his head. His skin felt as if on fire, blood roared in his ears, and his body went rigid, his cock throbbing, becoming rock hard, his own pleasure imminent. Indescribable tension coiled tight in his groin and it felt like every muscle in his body was straining for release.

Frantic with lust, sensing waves of ecstasy just over the precipice, his body demanding release, Jon flipped his squire over onto his back and began pounding his needy cock into Satin's tight heat. Gazing down at his squire's pretty face, the moaning sounds of his sweet voice filling his ear, an image flashed in Jon's mind of a beautiful young woman with red hair sharing his bed. Jolts of intense pleasure surged through his body, his eyes slamming shut. Long, guttural moans escaped him as Jon pumped shot after shot of hot seed into his squire's ass. Satin's fingers dug into his back and he clenched around him, milking his spasming cock. Jon's mind flooded with the heady fog of euphoria as Satin began kissing him softly, across his brow, his temple, his cheek, nuzzling his beard, soft fingers lazily caressing his back.

Completely spent, Jon collapsed onto the mattress beside his squire, shuddering. While he lay staring up at the ceiling of his bedchamber, Satin moved over him, sighing and humming contentedly as he licked the thick lines of his seed from Jon's belly. Moving lower, Satin pulled Jon's fat cock into his mouth to clean it, licking up and down the thick length, squeezing the base of his shaft and licking up the streams of hot seed that oozed from the tip, swirling his tongue around and under the foreskin, humming in delight. The image of the redheaded woman again came forward in Jon's mind. To his surprise and confusion, the woman wasn't Ygritte. Nor was it Lady Melisandre. He could see her sitting in Winterfell's courtyard, brushing the coat of her direwolf. He could hear her singing softly to herself, her pretty voice recounting tales of knights and heroes and princes. His guts twisted fiercely as he realized to his own shock and horror just who the woman was, that thoughts of his sister had brought on such a powerful release. Shame filled him, but so did arousal.

With his squire's soft mouth on his half erect cock licking up the last drops of his pleasure, to Jon's surprise his body began responding once more. Satin moaned around him as his cock hardened, filling his mouth with his thick, pulsing flesh. Suddenly, almost without warning, an oil-slicked finger was pressing against Jon's ass, circling the rim of his tight entrance. He groaned, his cock again becoming rock hard. A finger slipped inside and he grunted, gritting his teeth through the sting. But he didn't protest. The finger pulled out briefly and then two oil-coated fingers entered him. The pressure was unlike anything he'd ever experienced.

Satin's mouth then moved up and down his throbbing cock, his soft, deft fingers stroked his inner walls. They quickly found a sweet spot, rubbing against it, and Jon began to moan. Indescribable pleasure rippled through his body, his groin tightened, another release just over the precipice, vague thoughts of Sansa swimming in his mind. He slammed his eyes shut, focusing on the wet heat of Satin's mouth around his swollen cockhead, his hand firmly gripping the thick shaft, stroking him, and the fingers caressing his inner wall. 

Then a third slick finger entered him, and Satin began fucking him, stroking that sweet spot hard and fast. The tension in Jon's groin burst, and he cried out, his body flooding with mindless pleasure as torrents of his hot seed filled Satin's eager mouth. Another burst of pleasure shot through him as Satin swallowed the heavy, thick spurts of his release, working his throat around his sensitive head. Jon thrust his hips off the bed frantically as Satin milked his cock dry. 

Jon lay back on the mattress, breathless, panting and moaning, sweet and sensual thoughts of Satin and Sansa dancing in his head.

*****

Jon sat up on the mattress, keeping his nudity hidden beneath the blanket, releasing his tight grip from his hard cock. Gendry stood inside the tent, grinning at him. "I can't sleep either, my lord," he said, walking towards him. "Too many things on my mind. I figured it would be the same for you as well."

Staring at Robert Baratheon's bastard moving closer to him, Jon swallowed. "What's on your mind?"

"Dragons, ice demons, the end of the world," he smirked. "You know, the usual." Gendry sat down beside him on the mattress. "And of course, we're nearing Winterfell. Your sister is there, I hear?"

"My sister?" Jon said, his brows furrowing in confusion. 

Gendry nodded sheepishly. "I haven't spoken of her before now, and I'm sorry about that, my lord. I don't know why. I was embarrassed or maybe ashamed. I know she truly cared for me and would've stuck by me to the end. But I just left her there and went off with that red witch. I shouldn't have, and I'm sorry, my lord. I should've stayed with her." He sighed. "I don't know how she'll react to seeing me again, to be honest."

Jon's face hardened, giving him a direct, unflinching stare. "My sister."

He blinked, swallowing. "Yes, my lord."

"Sansa?" His breathing quickened. Something possessive and animalistic rose up inside him, his hands closing into tight fists. 

"No," Gendry replied, shaking his head. A puzzled expression played across his face. "Arya." 

Nodding, Jon made no immediate reply, and simply looked down at his hands in his lap. Another memory stirred, of his return to Caste Black from Hardhome.....

Walking on sore legs, Jon made his way towards the tunnel gate, Tormund Giantsbane at his side, his black brothers and a mass horde of wildling families behind them. The air was cold and dense as snow fell down from the sky. The wind had started to pick up, gusts of it blowing the snow all around them. They halted in front of the massive wall of ice. Breathing hard, the cold air oppressive inside his aching chest, Jon looked up at the ancient stronghold that loomed in front of them. Above, he knew Ser Alliser Thorne had the Wall. For a long, agonizing moment, he believed the gate wouldn't rise, that his orders would be disobeyed, and they'd be left out in the cold to die, thousands of them. 

Still staring up at the Wall, Jon walked forward, separating himself from the group, silently announcing the presence of their Lord Commander. Another long, agonizing moment. Then the iron bars unlocked and the gate began to rise. Exhaling a sharp sigh of relief, he started moving towards the gate, motioning for the others to follow. As he got closer, he saw a figure through the blustering snow just inside the tunnel, dressed in black and standing next to the flickering light of a lantern. 

When he reached the gate, Jon's heart leapt at the sight of his steward. He wanted to take Satin in his arms, inhale his sweet scent, take comfort in his soothing embrace. Their eyes met and held, Satin's tender expression one of affectionate devotion. They didn't speak or touch, but nodded, exchanging a private, knowing look as Tormund and Dolorous Edd appeared alongside Jon at the open gate. Satin then led them underneath the Wall, lighting the way through the icy gloom of the tunnel with the iron lantern. 

Jon was soon standing with Samwell Tarly and Dolorous Edd in Castle Black's courtyard watching the wildlings make their way to through to the other side of the Wall. He'd sent Satin ahead to his quarters, where he was no doubt starting a fire and setting food and drink on the table. The snow was now falling heavy from the sky, coating his hair and his cloak. "It was a failure," he told Sam. "I went to save them. I failed." 

His friend pointed out the wildings making their way across the courtyard, the ones he didn't fail. "Every one of them is alive because of _you,_ and no one else."

"I don't think that fact's lost on them," Jon replied, nodding toward their brothers standing about, shooting him resentful glares. 

Emerging from the tunnel and into the courtyard, the giant Wun Wun then strode in front of them, following the line of wildlings heading for the main castle gate. He stared at his passing. Sam turned to speak something to him, but at the approaching footsteps of Alliser Thorne, he quickly moved away. 

Ser Alliser came to a stop beside him, in the spot Sam had just vacated. "You have a good heart, Jon Snow. It will get us all killed."

Turning to face the First Ranger, Jon watched him walk off before he could speak a reply. His heart sank within him, his thoughts turning dire. Thousands of dead wildlings, now living corpses. The Night King, raising his arms, taunting him. The hateful glares of his brothers, full of bitterness and resentment. Most of them still failed to see the real threat, the greater threat. Winter was coming. The White Walkers would show no mercy, and the Night's Watch had no means of stopping them. He felt nothing but despair. These thoughts weighed heavily upon him and he was desperate to ease his burden. He yearned to be alone with Satin, and started making his way toward the Commander's Tower, anticipating the quiet warmth inside his rooms. 

"Jon."

Without stopping, he looked over his shoulder and saw Sam approaching. "What is it?"

His friend and brother picked up his pace behind him. "We received a raven while you were gone."

"And? What did it say?" Jon replied impatiently, still making quick strides toward the stairs that would lead him up to his tower. 

"It was a message about your sister."

Jon stopped in his tracks and pivoted, turning to look him in the face. The expression he saw wasn't reassuring. Was it bad news? His guts twisted into knots. "Arya?"

Shaking his head, Sam frowned. "Your sister, Sansa, has been wed to Roose Bolton's son."

"Roose Bolton's son?" His brows furrowed in confusion. Lord Roose had no trueborn sons. He only had the... Jon's face fell, and he swallowed. ...The bastard. "No. Not Ramsay Snow."

"Yes," Sam replied, his face full of sympathy and concern. "He's been named Roose Bolton's son and heir, legitimized by King Tommen. He was wed to Sansa Stark in Winterfell's godswood."

Hanging his head, Jon's face contorted with distress. How could this have happened?

Sam sighed. "I know. He's a monster if half of what we've heard about him is true. Hopefully she took a dagger with her to bed on her wedding night."

Jon remained speechless, images of Sansa in a wedding gown beneath the heart tree flashing before his eyes, anguish rising up inside him like bile. He looked up, caught more hateful looks from the men under his command, watched the downtrodden wildling survivors still making their way through the courtyard. The Night King's taunting gaze. Sansa in Ramsay Bolton's bed. It was all too much. Without another word, Jon turned on his heel and walked away from Sam. He quickly made for the Commander's Tower, hot tears threatening to fall. 

Stepping inside his bedchamber, he closed and locked the door before shrugging off his heavy black cloak and throwing it on the floor. He leaned back against the door and hung his head in despair. He then heard footsteps crossing the floor coming towards him and he opened his eyes to see the comforting sight of his steward approaching him. Gazing into Satin's pretty face, his dark eyes emitting warmth and affection, Jon's tears welled up and brimmed over. He then poured out the burdens on his heart, filling his squire in on the details of the tragedy at Hardhome. 

"And my sister..." he said, choking back a sob. "Is in Winterfell, wed to Ramsay Bolton."

Satin's face paled, his eyes going wide. 

"What can I do? Everything I do is a failure. What if every choice I've made is wrong? I didn't ride south when Robb called his banners. I didn't go after my sisters. I didn't go south with Stannis. I had the chance to save Winterfell, but I stayed here and went to Hardhome instead. And now the Boltons have Sansa."

Frowning, his expression full of sympathy and tenderness, Satin stepped closer, his hands reaching up to hold his face. Jon threw his arms around him, burying his face in Satin's shoulder, and began to sob quietly.

"Stannis is marching on Winterfell as we speak," Satin whispered reassuringly, hugging him tight. "Everyone says he's the best military commander in Westeros. He'll defeat the Boltons and save your sister."

Jon let out a shuddering breath as he pulled out of the hug, tears rolling down his cheeks. He gazed into his squire's face and their eyes held, transfixed. Satin's dark, sparkling eyes held fire, enticing him. A powerful feeling welled up inside Jon, something he hadn't felt since Ygritte. Leaning forward, reaching for his squire, he pressed his lips to Satin's, something he'd never done with him. The steward's eyes widened in surprise at the act, and he pulled away.

"No one's ever kissed me before."

His brows furrowed in confusion. "But, in the brothel..."

Satin shook his head. "Not on the mouth."

Humming in satisfaction, Jon recaptured his lips. Satin wrapped his arms around him once again, and began to return his kisses ardently. Their clothing was soon discarded and lying in a heap on the floor, and they lay side by side on the featherbed. Satin held Jon's big, soft cock in his hand, caressing his flesh. He rolled his balls in the palm of his hand, as if urging them to fill with what he needed. Groaning, Jon could feel his cock begin to stir in Satin's hand, thickening, stiffening. With a moan of pleasure, Satin pulled him close, holding him in a tight embrace, skin to skin, kissing his mouth. Their hard cocks rubbed together, pressed between them. As a fierce fire of need grew inside him, Jon's kisses grew more passionate, full of desperate hunger. 

"I want you so much," the steward moaned against his mouth.

Jon groaned and turned, laying Satin on his back underneath him. He threw an arm out, reaching beneath the bed for the jar of oil. In a matter of moments, his hard pulsing flesh was coated with the slick substance, mixing with the precum oozing from his swollen cockhead. He pressed the tip of his cock to his squire's oil-slicked entrance. Satin moaned and begged, arching his hips off the bed. Jon then nudged the huge tip of his cock inside his hole, and Satin gasped. Soon he was all the way inside Satin's ass, a hot sheath for his engorged flesh. 

"Lord Commander," Satin moaned. "Fuck me."

He began to pump him harder and faster, fully impaling his ass on his cock with each deep thrust. Jon gazed down between them at Satin's huge cock, twitching against his stomach, precum beading at the tip. He licked his lips, and his asshole clenched. He wanted it. As his squire reached between them to stroke himself, Jon pushed his hand away. "That's for me." 

Satin whimpered as Jon leaned over, pinning his wrists to the mattress above his head, trapping his squire's swollen flesh between them. Jon kissed him passionately as they fucked, pounding his throbbing cock in earnest. He soon pulled away from their kisses and concentrated on the pleasurable sensations building up inside him. The heady scent of their arousal filled the air. Satin's ass, so hot and so tight, squeezing his sensitive cockhead, clenching around his thick shaft.

He changed the angle of his thrusts, and Satin's moans of ecstasy began filling his ears. "Oh, Jon. Right there. That's the spot. Keep fucking me. Don't stop."

He thrust harder, faster, and gazed down into Satin's face, contorting with intense pleasure as Jon's thick cock filled his ass. "Oh, you're making me come, you're making me come." His squire's voice sounded desperate, a cross between a sob and a whimper.

Jon groaned at his words, his eyes rolling to the back of his head, his groin tightening with his own impending release. He then stared down at Satin's needy, fat cock between them, now steadily flowing with precum. He wanted to be filled, the craving surging through him. Stars exploded and his vision blurred. Loud, guttural moans escaped his lips as he thrust hard, pumping heavy spurts of his hot seed deep in Satin's ass. 

Satin whimpered again, sounding desperate. "Yes. Give it to me. Fill me with your sweetness."

Wave after blissful wave pulled him under as he continued to pump his cock inside his tight ass. Jon finally dropped onto the mattress beside Satin, panting and moaning. His squire moved over him, taking hold of his softening erection and licking him clean, swallowing the remaining drops of pleasure seeping from the tip of his cock. Satin moved back up his body and Jon reached out, taking firm hold of his cock, still huge and fat and leaking. "Your turn."

The steward looked at him in surprise. "You don't need to worry about me, m'lord. You've taken your pleasure, and also gave me some. That's more than enough for me." 

He realized his squire was used to brothel life, where he was paid to service others and not to think about himself and his own needs. "You haven't gotten a full release."

Satin swallowed, hesitating. "Well, how do you want it, m'lord? What do you...? I can..."

Jon groaned, and felt his groin stirring once more. "Do you want to fuck me, Satin?"

The steward's eyes went wide for a moment, but then sparkled with arousal, his eyes becoming so dark they were almost black. He pressed his body against his Lord Commander's, kissing him passionately. Jon moved against him in sensual arousal, his head tilting backwards as Satin licked the long length of his throat. Turning him to lay on his stomach, Satin then retrieved the oil, liberally coating his fingers and his fat cock. Jon held very still as he prepared him by pressing an oil-slicked finger to the rim of his entrance, stretching him. Then another slick finger joined the first. It stung, but soon it became a pleasurable pain, and Jon couldn't stop himself from rocking his hips back and forth along his fingers. Then Satin pulled away. Jon's mouth went dry, anticipating the fat cock up his ass. A moment later, he gasped when he felt the huge tip pressing against his hole. 

"Are you sure, m'lord?" Satin whispered.

"Yes, do it. Now. Fuck me."

He began working his hard cock in slowly, pausing whenever Jon gasped or moaned. Finally, his cock was deep inside, and Jon felt the pain was tolerable. He was so hot and aroused, it felt good to him. Satin then stopped his thrusts and laid himself forward on top of Jon, pressing his chest to his back, his arms wrapping around him, his hands grasping Jon's hands, their fingers threading. Satin's mouth was in his ear, whispering sweet nothings, telling him how good he felt, how hot and tight he was, how beautiful he was, and how much he loved him. Jon felt emotion well up deep inside him unbidden, tears pricking his eyes. 

Satin then pumped his fat cock slow and deep, in and out of Jon's ass, steadily going deeper each time, but soon he was moving quickly, thrusting faster. Jon felt the throbbing flesh hit places he didn't know existed, and he groaned, his pleasure mounting. "I want to see your face when I make you come," Satin panted.

He turned Jon over to lay on his back, his half erect cock falling onto his stomach. Satin's thrusts then continued, steady, deep, relentless, and he was moaning with pleasure. Jon's body rocked with the force of his thrusts, and his thick shaft hardened again, his throbbing flesh tormenting him with need. He wanted to come so badly, but he resisted stroking himself and concentrated on his ass and the revelation of how incredibly good it felt to be fucked.

"You're so smooth," his squire said. "You feel so good around my cock."

Jon groaned and watched the glistening, fat cock thrust into him again and again, hitting sweet places inside him that made him feel like his skin would burst into flames. He panted silently, straining toward another release, a greater climax, one that would sweep his mind free of every terror, every failure. He felt Satin's cock grow bigger, his flesh become harder and hotter, pressing against that sweet spot inside him. His inner muscles clenched around the huge cock. The pain and pleasure of it shot through his body all at once. The feeling was unlike anything Jon had ever imagined or experienced before. A subtle change in Satin's angle had his thrusts jamming against Jon's sweet spot more firmly, and sliding in deeper than ever. Breathless moans tumbled from Jon's mouth.

"Come for me," Satin demanded through gritted teeth. "You're so tight, I can't hold out much longer. Come on."

And then he did, losing himself completely to the mindless euphoria as one surge of white-hot pleasure followed another, faster and faster until he cried out. Though he had come hard inside Satin's ass not long ago, Jon's throbbing cock erupted like a long dormant volcano. Thick ropes of his hot seed gushed from the slit in his cockhead, jet after jet of his release landing on his stomach and chest. Watching his white hot seed literally get fucked out of him sent Satin over the edge, and his pulsating ass filled with the warmth of Satin's exploding pleasure, their frantic and loud moans filling the bedchamber. 

Satin collapsed on top of him, his body heavy and soft at the same time, and they lay still for a long time, their breathing becoming deep and slow until Satin finally pulled out and rolled next to Jon. They kissed for what felt like hours, the warmth and intimacy of Jon's bedchamber keeping them locked away from the world. But it wasn't long before reality brought them back. 

"You're in need of a bath, m'lord," Satin sighed contentedly.

Jon watched his squire move off the bed and reach for his black leathers and woolens. He lay back against the mattress and stared up at the ceiling, agonizing thoughts of Hardhome, Sansa, and Ramsay Bolton filling his head once more.

*****

Sighing, Jon came out of his reverie. Gendry sat beside him, speaking of his history with Arya and all they experienced together. His memories of Satin had kept his cock awake and hard, and his stomach fluttery, and he was unable to concentrate on what Gendry was saying. His erection throbbed and Jon moved his hand to palm himself through the blanket, seeking the pressure and friction he needed. 

Pausing, Gendry stared at him. "Still hard?" He smirked. "Talking about your sister keeps you excited, eh?"

He knew he'd made the impertinent remark about Arya, but all Jon could think of was Sansa. If only he could agree with Gendry and tell him that thoughts of his sister got him rock hard most nights. Instead, he remained silent.

"Do you need me to fuck you again, my lord?" he asked, grinning. His hands reached for the edge of the wool blanket. "I have to say, I was quite disappointed you never came to my cabin again after that first night."

The blanket fell from his lap, and Jon's thick, aching cock sprang free, heavy with need. He shook his head. Fucking would be too risky in the camp. And after their first encounter on the boat sailing to White Harbor, all he could think about was Satin. How different things would've been if Satin was the one who'd been on the boat with him, if it was Satin who sat next to him now. He had no desire to be fucked by Gendry again. There was also no desire to fuck him either. But his cock throbbed painfully and he was desperate for release, desperate for sleep. 

"Suck on my cock until I come in your mouth," Jon said. "And then I want you to leave."

Gendry's eyes blazed, and he swallowed. "Yes, my lord." Getting down on his knees, he sat in front of his spread legs. 

Palming his erection, Jon rubbed the wet slit across Gendry's lips. The man then opened his mouth with a moan and sucked on the swollen, fat tip, pulsing as it leaked precum. His hands moved to support Gendry's head and he rocked his hips, sinking his needy cock deep into Gendry's hot mouth. Jon let out a little gasp as he was engulfed with the wet heat. Gendry wrapped his hand around the base of the thick shaft and pulled his foreskin down, uncovering his cockhead inside his mouth. Precum oozed onto Gendry's tongue and he hungrily drank it down as he licked and sucked Jon's hard cock. Then he cupped Jon's balls in his hand and pushed his mouth all the way down his cock, his hand moving inside his breeches to stroke his own erection. Jon's swollen cockhead pressed against the back of Gendry's throat. Jon moaned as Gendry began bobbing his head up and down his thick cock, letting the fat tip hit the back of his throat each time. Closing his eyes, he imagined Satin was there instead. It was Satin sitting on his knees, gazing up at him with dark eyes full of affection and devotion. It was Satin sucking on his thick, pulsing flesh. It was Satin giving him pleasure. Jon began thrusting his hips forward in time with Gendry's head. Moaning around his cock, stroking himself to completion, Gendry's own release came. Tension coiled tight in Jon's groin, then suddenly burst, and he groaned, heavy spurts of his hot seed filling Gendry's mouth. 

Breathless, Jon watched him wipe his lips and stand to his feet. "We'll be in Winterfell in a few short days."

"Yes, my lord," he said. "I'm looking forward to it. I've wanted to see the castle ever since I befriended your sister."

Pursing his lips, Jon nodded, pulling the wool blanket over his lap and covering himself. He needed to break this... arrangement... off, whatever it was. "Thank you for your..." He paused. "Assistance. But there will be no need for you to come to me again like this. Under any circumstances."

Gendry blinked, staring for a moment, but then he flashed a warm, wide smile. "Aye. I wouldn't want this to cause any problems for myself, at least as far as your sister is concerned. No worries, my lord. We need never speak of this again."

Soon Jon was alone, and lay atop his bed staring into the darkness. An overwhelming sense of sadness engulfed him, the depth of loneliness and emptiness inside him growing. He'd loved and lost before, but the pain and guilt he'd felt over Ygritte had grown dull with time. The realization of his love for Sansa had been the blinding flash that awoke all his nature. And yet his heart had now begun to ache with memories of Satin. He'd tried to forget Castle Black and the brothers he'd left behind. In the pain and anger of his betrayal and murder, he'd told himself he no longer cared. He pushed Satin away, and left him there on the Wall.....

Jon walked about his bedchamber, packing a canvas sack, and asked his steward to bring it down to the courtyard. He then reached inside the wardrobe and retrieved his old fur-lined cloak, the one he'd left Winterfell with when he was just a boy. He shrugged on the cloak and fastened it about his shoulders. He turned to see his steward hadn't moved. Satin stood in front of the window, looking down on the bustle in the castle courtyard. "Your sister is very beautiful, m'lord," he said.

Halting his movements, Jon stopped and looked at him. "Aye. She is. And I'm not your lord anymore." Sansa had always been a very pretty girl, but she'd grown into a beautiful woman. More beautiful than he'd imagined. 

"Long, red hair, comely face, tall, attractive figure, and perfect breasts, not too large and not too small."

Jon's mouth went dry and he stared. "Do you... do you _like_ girls, Satin?"

Scoffing, the steward turned from the window. "Of course I like girls."

"You like girls... the same way you like...?" Jon asked, his sentence trailing off.

"The same way I like you?" replied Satin, giving him a half smile, his dark eyes sparkling. "No one can quite compare to you. But yes. I like men and women."

Jon was curious and realized he had never asked Satin about his life in the brothel, not wanting to speak of it before. "And when you were in Oldtown...?"

Satin nodded. "I was skilled at servicing both." 

"And... you liked both the same?" he asked.

"Well, the women usually treated me better, but yes, I thoroughly enjoyed both." Satin turned back to look out the window. "I see the way you look at her."

Nerves filled his gut and he felt his face reddening. "Who?"

Satin didn't respond right away and kept looking out the window. Finally, he answered. "The Lady Sansa. I see the way you gaze at her."

"I do not _gaze_ at Sansa," Jon denied, his guts twisting into knots.

Turning from the window, Satin shot him a challenging look. "It's quite normal in certain parts of the world for men to want their sisters, and believe me, it's more common in Westeros than people would ever admit."

Jon became defensive. "I'm not a sisterfucker." 

"Six months ago you weren't into buggering either, and here we are," Satin snapped back. 

Anger rose up inside him, from he knew not where, and Jon grasped hold of the canvas sack, and walked toward the chamber door. Satin rushed forward and reached a hand out, gently grasping his arm. "I'm sorry. Jon, I'm sorry."

Sighing, he stopped and turned to him. Satin's eyes were welling up with tears. "Why must you leave?" he whispered. 

"There's no place for me here anymore," he said, the anger dissipating. "I gave my life to the Night's Watch. My own brothers took it from me. I have to leave."

"But we need you here," the steward said, his voice thick with emotion. "You're the one we all turn to. Those men out there, they may have hated some of the choices you made, but you're the one they'd run to to lead them through the Long Night. And they all know it."

Jon shook his head. "I've ignored my family for too long. Sansa needs me. And Rickon. If they're still alive, Bran and Arya will need us. We have to save Winterfell from the Boltons."

Lips trembling, chin quivering, the tears in Satin's eyes welled up and brimmed over. _"I_ need you. Don't leave me."

"I have to go," Jon whispered, furiously fighting back the emotions rising up inside him. Satin had been his steward and squire and nothing more, he reasoned with himself. They'd taken their pleasure from each other, surely. Satin had taken care of his physical needs in the most exquisite ways, but that was it. He told himself it was impossible for him to care for another man the same way he could care for a woman, to love Satin the same way he'd loved Ygritte.

"Then take me with you," Satin cried, tears rolling down his cheeks. 

Closing his eyes, he sighed. He then gazed into his beautiful, heartbroken face. "I can't. You'd be executed as a deserter. I won't be the cause of your death. You must stay here on the Wall and fulfill the vows you swore."

Jon moved to the door, grasping hold of the latch, and stepped out into the hall. Satin continued to cry. "Please don't leave me," he begged helplessly, sobs erupting from his chest. "I love you."

Fighting desperately to shove down the emotions threatening to overwhelm him, Jon shut the door behind him and walked away.

*****

As Jon lay on the bed inside his tent, staring out into the darkness, he began to weep. He was sick with love. The bad kind. The tight-fist-around-his-heart kind. For he was not so foolish as to cherish any hopes. Satin was a brother of the Night's Watch, sworn to live and die at his post. Sansa was the sister he could never have the way he wanted. He'd run far, all the way to Winterfell and then to Dragonstone, but there had been no escaping it. It had followed him south of the Wall, all the way. The realization of his love for Satin was a heavy burden on his heart, tormenting him. His love for both Satin and Sansa had neither faded nor withered with time. The secret yearnings of his heart had only grown stronger and deeper the longer he'd been away. He tried to reason with himself, to argue against the hopelessness of his desires for them, trying to convince himself to place his affections elsewhere, to place them where they wouldn't be so desperate. But as Jon lay there, he longed for death, the love in his heart pained with the realization they could never be his, and all night long he tossed sleepless because of Sansa _and_ Satin.


End file.
